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Virgin Slut

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Virgin Slut

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“Virgin Slut” was a term I came up with whilst trying to describe what type of dress I wanted to buy in Napoli for the day I was going to spend on the Amalfi coast. I wanted to feel like a nun with big breasts under her habit as her cross bounces off her chest every step she took through the halls of the coven. I wanted it to evoke the same feeling as a woman’s dress clinging to her as she steps out of the pool, still in shock, after being pushed in at a party. Undeniably alluring with no intent to be. Of course, it had to be white. I didn’t find the ideal dress but did find one good enough, on the side of the street for 5 euros. But it wasn’t until I found myself scrambling to articulate the essence of the concept over dinner with the heir of one of the oldest Italian families on the coast, in the very hotel his familyowned, that I realised it carried a deeper meaning, one that came to define how I lived every summer. 

Lust and loneliness has taken me to places I’ve come to regret, nights spent in beds I wished I hadn’t stayed in, lying awake beside someone I no longer wanted to be with once the adrenaline faded and the thrill of the chase was over, the realisation that the void of feeling alone was not filled. I’d turn to look at the man next to me, let out a sigh of quiet disappointment, and feel a lingering ickiness for days, wondering why I did it in the first place. Or when it made me too eager, too hungry, so I dove in completely with a guy I actually ended up liking. But he got the cake right away and got too full too fast. 

I have tried to combat lust with celibacy, however as we know restriction makes everything more sexy. Ask a bulimic. I am also far too young to restrain myself from the pleasures of flirting, affection and sex. I always wanted to avoid the negatives of lust but still experience the beauty of romance.

But when the Summer Solstice hits and I’m spinning through the block parties at Fête de la Musique, the moment the clock strikes midnight, I transform. In comes: The Virgin Slut. 

She embraces her sexuality without surrendering to it. She walks freely among desire, inviting it, resisting it, never owned by it. In her, contradiction is not a flaw but a form of freedom.

Like every summer since I turned seventeen, I meet a few gentlemen I spend time with, when I’m not wrapped up in my friends or content in my own company. Some might call it “summer love,” but some of these connections don’t run deep enough to earn the title. I’ve had momentary lovers in different cities, men who showed me around, fed me, courted me. And when it felt right, made love to me. There’s always just enough tenderness a soft kiss on the forehead, an affectionate smile, to make it feel real, even though we both know it’s only play-pretend. I do grow attached, and I miss them for a little while, before they fade, leaving only flickers of memory I sometimes revisit in moments of boredom or daydreaming. In busy cities, I find my most tender encounters. I do adore romance by the ocean but summer in the city is far more romantic to me. Because love by the seaside is a given, of course you’d fall in love with anyone when they look like they’re dripped in gold as the sun sets. Of course your heart grows fonder when the kiss tasted like berries and wine, and how intense your love making can feel when your skin is touched by the salty breeze accompanied by a chorus of crickets. But city romance is in the subtleties. It’s the quiet intimacy of sitting together in a grimy metro station, discovering beauty in each other’s faces despite the harsh, flickering lights. It’s still being drawn to one another in the midst of huge, humid crowds. It’s rediscovering a city you thought you knew like the back of your hand, feeling excitement roaming the streets you’ve passed through everyday. 

Summer romance feels sweet and light. Unlike other times, I never feel pressured or obligated to do anything. I’m not worried about when to call back out of politeness, or why sometimes there’s no call at all. I follow my own rhythm — if my heart wants to see someone again, I don’t hesitate. I don’t stress over timing, whether it’s the right moment to have sex or if it’s okay not to kiss someone even after they’ve treated me to a meal. Everything happens on my terms, and usually, my confidence in those choices leaves no room for challenge.

I have come to realise that the Virgin Slut is what true sexual freedom is. For a long time, I misunderstood sexual freedom to mean shameless sex—anytime, with anyone. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to understand that true freedom lies in mindfulness, not mindlessness. It doesn’t mean abstaining from pleasure, but rather being intentional about it. Also discerning that sex is for pleasure and not a way to combat some kind of malaise is key to true sexual freedom. The sexy aspect of dating isn’t always what happens in the sheets, but lies in the tension, the ambiguity, and the unspoken words. Sometimes leaving it all at the dinner table and going home alone is far more fulfilling than ending up in some man’s bed. There’s also beauty in waiting, in letting desire build slowly until it feels right. Maybe that old-school rule about not giving yourself away too quickly wasn’t prudish after all, maybe it was wisdom in disguise. Not a warning against society’s judgment, but a protection from the inner emptiness that can follow rushed intimacy.

True sexual freedom, I’m learning, isn’t about doing everything, it’s about knowing why you’re doing it, and honoring your own pace.

I’ve come to wonder why is it that I do not apply this same philosophy throughout the year and still couldn’t find the answer. It may be how free I feel when in the sun. I may feel more beautiful when my skin is golden brown, no longer relying on anyone else for validation. Maybe it is simply the joy I feel seeing other people so much more relaxed when simply no longer fighting the cold. Having never had a corporate job, maybe I still feel associate summer holidays to the times I was still in school where those were the moments I felt complete freedom and independence. Having had this realisation, things will hopefully change from now on. 

Wishing you all a wonderful Virgin Slut summer! 

Yours,

V.B 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, July 2025

Love Me, Love Me Not.

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Love Me, Love Me Not.

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I’m smoking a cigarette at the kitchen table ashing into a used glass of wine with dried up residue.  In front of me, beautiful Naples. My brother’s apartment is on the top floor, overlooking old uneven buildings in different shades of yellow. Occasional flocks of birds fly past yet the chirping sounds are constant. The bright blue sky with big cloud chunks, that I once thought was the kingdom of God as a little girl. It’s relatively quiet with the subtle brouhaha of the chaos below. Sometimes, the aggravating sound of airplanes takes over. I hate it. 

I can’t see her, but constantly feel her— Vesuvius is on my right. If I just popped my head out the window, there she would sit quietly. Her presence felt no matter where I am in the city. I wish the weather was always this pleasant everywhere I went, at any time. But upon further thought, I know I’d miss the rain. The morning breeze caresses my skin, bringing my attention back to my body. Its soft touch reminds me how dry my skin is in Europe. As much as I try to moisturise, it is always parched. 

I haven’t felt in tune with my body in a long time. Dare I say, I’ve actually been repulsed by it — also repulsed by the idea that I could be so vain and shallow as to worry about such a thing when I’ve come all this way, gifted myself a trip I’ve dreamed about ever since I was just a small girl. I am 24, turning 25 in a month and a bit, yet I still feel the same awkwardness I’ve always felt since I was an adolescent. I’ve found it hard to accept that I’ve got no control over it, and yet am deeply convinced that I do at the same time. It drives me silently insane that no matter what I do, and how many products I lather onto my face and body, I still bloat and am met with pimples, hyperpigmentation, hair, scars that heal weirdly, dried lips, and cuticles. I view my body like a field covered in invasive species that I am constantly needing to tame. I feel less than when I am not perfectly “groomed”. I almost feel dirty. I do not feel like I can move freely in the world without my nails done and my legs and armpits shaved. Sometimes, the feminist in me finds the courage to just “not give a fuck” and raise my arms despite having a little stubble under there. However, the other patriarchal voice quickly reminds me how disgusting I am, leading me to keep my arms down, my hands hidden unless needed, and to wear only closed shoes until my next pedicure appointment. He always wins.

My first memory of feeling uneasy in my body was just after I turned 13, while on vacation with my family in a small beach town near Biarritz in the South West of France. I was sitting under an umbrella in a lavender lace dress I’d picked out for my birthday trip to Disneyland a few weeks earlier. The sun was relentless, and I was sweating, restless, watching other kids splash and play freely in the sea.

My mum kept asking why I wouldn’t change and go swim. I finally told her, flatly: “I’m too fat.” I saw the shock in her eyes before she quickly masked it with frustration. “You’re wasting your time worrying about such dumb things,” she said. Then, trying to make her point, she discreetly nodded toward a very heavyset woman nearby. “Do you think she cares how you look?” she asked. Then she pointed to a group of teenagers. “Do you think they care? No one cares. Go change and go swimming—you look ridiculous wearing that to the beach.” So I did. I got changed and spent the rest of the day in the water. I only wish I could hear her say those words every time I have to undress to swim.

I wish I could say that day was a turning point—that after that moment, I stopped thinking negatively about my body. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Things only got worse from there, especially as I got older and boys started entering the picture. Suddenly, it felt like they had the right to judge how we looked, as if their opinions were the ultimate authority on our worth. As I grew older, I am starting to not care about their opinions on me but I will not lie and say that I fully couldn’t care at all. As a young woman, I too want to be desired. I’m somewhat relieved that I’m far from being in a relationship, because it eases the shame I feel when I don’t look my “cleanest.” I know it’s a sick and twisted thought—to believe I’m unworthy of love just because I don’t always look “up to par.” But I was taught this ever since I was a little girl by my stepfather, who simply reminded me that if I was not perfect, I would never be loved. This idea was also confirmed by my past partners, who would subtly remind me to keep up with my looks — tiptoeing around comments like “I love when you wear that to bed” or “I just thought you’d get your nails done before our vacation.” It almost felt like a threat, as if, if I decided not to upkeep as much as I usually do, they might stop desiring me. So, sex isn’t enjoyed as much if I haven’t spent 45 minutes on my back trying to not to scream out of pain as a lady I do not know yanks strips of hot wax off my pussy. Because if not, all I’d think about how disgusting they might think I am and there is nothing arousing about that. 

The constant internal tug-of-war between self-love and metamophosis is always playing out in my mind. Let me explain: I’ve always bounced between two beliefs—either I’ll find peace by learning to love myself as I am, or by changing everything about myself.

So, I start with acceptance. I tell myself this is how I look, and it has to be enough. I try not to say anything negative about my appearance. I force kind words out loud in front of the mirror. I avoid body checking. I even try “mirror rehab”(not looking in mirrors for stretches of time). I focus on external things that make me feel “fulfilled and happy”, hoping they’ll anchor me.

But when the self-loathing creeps back in—and it always does—I shift into makeover mode. I start making mental plans: lose the weight, get the injections, change the makeup, change the hair. In those moments, I’m convinced that once I hit a certain size, perfect a certain style, or achieve a specific look, I’ll finally be able to enjoy life. That my appearance will stop being the barrier between me and everything else.

It is a never ending cycle.

Before arriving in Naples, I had spent seven months in Bali with daily trips to the gym and religiously going to the sauna before freezing my clit off in the ice bath. I tried the Keto diet before having to stop because of severe constipation, then tried to heal my relationship with food through intuitive eating but was also intermittent fasting—which literally goes against the whole concept of intuitive eating. I was convinced that I would be able to metamorphose into this svelte woman and would finally be able to wear a bikini top and shorts during Fête de la Musique. My newly revealed abs would glisten with sweat as I danced in the midst of other bodies; the definition of my back and legs would show how physically strong I am. My thin arms wouldn’t be in the way of my double-D breasts from the side profile, making my surgery scars charming now. I fantasised and tried my best. I imagined what it would be like to be so in tune with this new body of mine that I could finally be solely in the moment and feel the music, unbothered by whether my top was covering all the right places and not distracted by my thick thighs rubbing up against each other. Unfortunately, my fitness goals were not met due to the fact that, as hard as I tried, my consistency was not enough and my diet was not monitored correctly.

I will not say it was a fully bad experience—I quite enjoyed it. I learned many things about nutrition and the positive effects of exercising. I also tried to focus on how I felt instead of only focusing on how I looked, but this is something extremely challenging for someone who has had a hyper-fixation on their looks and has also made a living from it. I could say that, generally, I felt good and had a clear mind; it helped my mental health a lot. But it made me look inward too much, and in some sense, it made me egotistical. Because whether you want it or not, a fitness journey requires you to deeply focus on yourself: keeping yourself in check to follow the routine, holding yourself accountable, taking progress photos of your body all the time, really making sure that your muscles work correctly when lifting, paying attention to what comes in and out of your body, tracking your weight and muscle mass—you watch your every move and your body so closely. It almost made me feel a little claustrophobic. I was too aware.

Once I stepped foot on the land of dolce far niente, all routines were left behind. I wanted to indulge in the culture and the food. I have three weeks to discover Italy and meet the people I have always been so curious about. How could I possibly worry about my looks when admiring what’s around me, dodging motorbikes flying past on the hot and narrow stone roads, and trying to find the right words to speak to the grandpa who sells wine down the street?

I shouldn’t be worried about how my body looks as I float in the cold water, volcanic sand between my toes, after lunch at Da Adolfo on the Amalfi Coast — embracing the belly I’ve gained from the six courses at Lulu’s. I am far too focused on not moaning too loudly at the table from the ricottini served with tomato and peach jam, sprinkled with peanut crumbs; the Roman tripe served in a fresh tomato ragù; and of course, my childhood favourite: spaghetti vongole, finally tasted in its homeland — every bite a perfect mix of ocean flavours, tanginess from the wine, and a splash of freshness from the parsley.

I was taken aback by Peppe Guida’s Villa Rosa, nestled in the heart of Montechiaro in Vico Equense — a place where the sea and Vesuvius stretch out on one side, the mountains rise on the other, and a typical Italian family meal is prepared with ingredients straight from their own garden.

How could I be worried about the way my skin looks when I’m sitting in front of The Ecstasy of St. Teresa — an orgasming nun, touched by God, carved out of marble, seated in a tiny church in the middle of Rome, glistening under ethereal yellow light piercing through stained glass? How could I possibly be worried about how my hair looks in the humid weather when I’m lulled every night by the summer breeze drifting in and out of my room?

I still worry, despite it all. When I’m alone in the bathroom, faced with my own reflection, the kind words I try to say to myself do not come, and I am overwhelmed by the need to fix it all — pondering how I could make it happen. How will I ever be freed from this body, this prison that causes me so much shame and pain? I almost cry at how cruel I am to myself, how I want to beat myself up for being so mean to the very vessel that has allowed me to experience the world. How can I be so ungrateful for the health I was blessed with? When did I become so vain?
Will I ever find peace of mind and finally let go of all of this pressure?

I’m not saying I don’t enjoy self-care and pampering myself — honouring the body I was given by adorning it and tending to it. I think it’s a beautiful process and a powerful way to ground myself.
However, when it stems from fear or disgust, what was meant to be a sacred ritual becomes a soulless routine — done only because it simply doesn’t feel right when it’s not.
Something that was meant to connect you with your body and help you cherish it turns into the very reason you see it as a burden.

I fear that I am wasting precious time worrying about these silly, small things, causing me to ruin beautiful memories. I fear that I will never find the balance I crave so badly, and that I’ll never let go of these old and tired expectations that have been instilled in me from a very young age. I know I am more than my looks — I have so much to offer the world — but why is it that I fear I won’t be seen or loved if I’m not pleasing to the eye?

My only solace, for now, is watching Vesuvius lie silent beneath the kingdom of God, a still giant wrapped in light, reminding me of how small I am, and how weightless my troubles truly are.

V.B, Napoli, July 2025

Surgery

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Surgery

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When my mother was pregnant with me, she had a few wishes. The usual ones, of course—a healthy and happy baby. But she also asked for a bit more: intelligence and grace. Then, she got more specific. She hoped her firstborn daughter would have the beauty of a model, an hourglass figure, and a big pair of breasts. It was an unusual request for an unborn child, but maybe she believed that if I had those things, life would be easier for me. Some of her wishes came true—her daughter was born healthy, relatively intelligent, and did end up becoming a model.

But, she also developed an abnormally huge pair of tits that were the bane of her existence from the moment she hit puberty. 

My breasts started growing at a very young age, and I can hardly remember a time when they weren’t there. I think I was around 10 or 11 when I first started receiving comments from people around me. It wasn’t like I had double D’s right away, but they were definitely noticeable. From the start, these comments made me uncomfortable. At that age, all you want is to blend in, to be like everyone else, and hearing those remarks always made me feel different. Looking back as an adult, I realise just how many comments I received about my body and breast size as a child. I probably would have been fine if no one pointed out how much faster I had developed compared to my peers, but for some reason, they always felt the need to remind me. To this day, I still don’t understand why.

The comments did not end there, they got worse as a tween. The boys have become horny monsters and there I was, me and big boobies, the perfect victim to be harassed with inappropriate comments. I was luckily already one to not be afraid to stand up to boys, so every time they teased me at PE, telling me that when I ran “the milk in my boobs would turn to yogurt”, I’d snatch them by the hair, pull them to my feet and make them apologise. This didn’t stop them to make the same comment over and over again and made me wonder that maybe they liked getting their hair pulled and getting my attention no matter where it came from. My girlfriends constantly told me how lucky I was to have big boobs and wished they had cleavage too, that I was “hotter” because of it. I was quickly sexualised from that point on, I was always told that I was “sexy”, “hot” and “seductive”, which once again is a little crazy to say to an underaged girl. Older men always told me that I was going to be man-eater later on in life and that “the boys will go crazy” for me. I’ve caught male teachers staring down as they explained a math problem to me. The overwhelming attention I was getting around my body was starting to get to me and really closed me off. At around 13 years old, I went through a “boy” phase where I dressed as a boy and wore baggy clothes, doing my best to conceal this body of mine. I had spent a whole summer in the south of France with my family without swimming. My mother asked me why I wasn’t swimming, I told her because I didn’t feel like being in a bathing suit in front of everybody. I was caught off guard by her reaction, when she angrily told me that I was wasting my life being so concerned about what people thought of me. She told me to look around me and look at all the people at the beach and all the different body types there were and how no one gave a fuck. That convinced me to go swimming, but just once.  

My biggest fear was to lose my identity because of my boobs, I feared that people would refer to me as “the one with the big boobs”. This obviously happened anyway, as much as I tried to hide my chest. As my friends started to get involved with boys and having their first kiss or getting fingered for the first time, I noticed how boys would talk so much afterwards, revealing each other’s businesses sometimes even humiliating the girls. This terrified me. I pushed back my first kiss for so long, using my braces as an excuse because I feared the noise it would make when someone actually got the chance to “experience me”. Who was going to be able to hook up with the girl with the big boobs? 

I was never seen around a boy at parties, there were no sighting of me kissing anyone and no one could claim they had stories about me because I simply did not speak to anyone. It went on for so long that people started creating rumours and saying that I was a lesbian. I still laugh at the thought of it, because like, what the actual fuck? 

By the time I was 15, I had started to really model and my first few clients were mainly bikini and lingerie brands. Why was this allowed, you ask? I do not know. Oddly enough modelling has created so many insecurities but also helped me open up. I also started to desire male attention more and realised that the ones getting the most attention were the ones that were considered “hot”, wearing cut off Topshop denim shorts, skimpy mini dresses and weren’t afraid to roll their school skirts up. So I tried to do the same, with some reluctance. I started to do what I feared other’s would do to me: I sexualised myself. That’s when I realised: these tits have power. Having boobs as a teenager had its perks, it made me looked curvier so it made me look grown. Looking grown meant that it I was rarely ever ID’d and I was able to get into any club. Buying drinks or cigarettes was a no brainer and it was easier to get attention from the older guys. I came to the silly conclusion that as long as I had boobs, I would be considered hot, meaning I would always be desired. If I ever felt insecure about something else, I’d just say that my boobs made up for it. They had the power to make me feel like I would perpetually be desired no matter what.

However, as I got older they didn’t stop growing, I grew a cup almost every 2 years and it started to be quite difficult to find clothes that would fit me properly. I couldn’t wear the same bikini styles as my petite friends. I had 3 bikini tops that I would be able to wear, when everyone else able to change it up everyday of the week. A lot of the clothes looked sexier on me, I would sometimes be dress coded in school for wearing the same exact outfit as a girl with an A cup. It started to take a toll on my back in my late teens and early twenties. I would sometimes cry for hours in bed from the pain that prevented me from sleeping causing severe exhaustion. Exercising was difficult, like running for instance was a pain, leading me to gain weight. Everything required a bra. Moving to Paris was exciting to me because I thought I could finally experiment with my personal style but I quickly realised that many of the things I wanted to wear just never sat right. On top of all of that, let’s also not forget the laws of gravity which is: “if you think your tits will stay perky forever as a size E cup, bitch you are tripping.” Boy did my boobs start to sag, they were heavy and if I didn’t have a bra on and it was hot out, my under boobs would sweat so much, leaving me with the most horrid slushy sensation. I simply couldn’t take it anymore. 

Broke and desperate, I began exploring my options. I discovered that in France, breast reductions for hypertrophy are covered by the public health system. I was quite overwhelmed because I didn’t know where to start, did I have to contact my GP first? Did they have to give me the green light to get a free breast reduction? Or should look for the surgeon and go to them right away? How do I know if it’s the right surgeon? Do I have to also prove that it has affected me psychologically to be eligible? 

Usually, I would have given up but the pain of living with the weight of actual two watermelons on my chest was honestly too much to bare. 

I decided to just find the right surgeon first. I remembered that the designer for the brand I interned for just had had a breast lift and was super happy with the result and went to a public hospital to get the procedure done. I asked for the name of the surgeon and booked an appointment right away. 

It was at the Tenon Hospital in 20th arrondissement, a 25 minute walk from my place. The beautiful Père Lachaise cemetery was on the way which is always a delight to walk through, especially in the morning when the Komorebi creates the most beautiful pattern of light and shadow. As I weaved my way between the gothic tombstones and old trees, I was confronted with the thought of death and its meaning—specifically, what the death of my big tits would signify.

I saw the breast reduction as my liberation. It would free me from years of physical pain and the mental strain it caused. No longer would I feel excessively vulgar or trapped in a hyper-sexualised image. It would strip away those labels and let me present myself as I’ve always wanted. I dreamed of moving freely, unburdened, no longer ‘the girl with huge boobs.’ This surgery felt like a rebirth—a chance for a fresh start and a new life. But, what if no one desired me anymore, what if without this sexy image I am worth less? Would I still get modelling jobs to support myself? Will my body look odd and disproportionate? What if the scars look crazy and I’ll never feel comfortable naked in front of anybody again? 

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I was greeted by a rude receptionist (because, of course, I’m in France), and sat waiting for what felt like an eternity. When they finally called my name, I met my surgeon for the first time. He asked me the basic questions, including what I did for a living. He paused for a moment, looked at me with a puzzled expression, and then asked, “So, you’re a model?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What kind? Aren’t you heavier than usual?”

I didn’t know how to respond. I suddenly felt like I was back in my modelling agency, where my agents always told me I should lose weight. Ignoring his question, I explained what I wanted: smaller breasts, specifically a C cup.

“Are you sure you want to go that small?” he asked.

“I think so,” I replied.

“Well, you’d lose all of your silhouette. Is that something you’re okay with?”

“Yes, as long as it looks good.”

“You’d look great with just a lift. They’ve sagged quite a bit, but you’d look amazing with a nice D.”

I told him I was experiencing back pain and would prefer to go as small as I could.

“I’d suggest you lose some weight first. Maybe five kilos.”

The words hit me hard. It felt like a trigger being pulled. I was already struggling with my weight, and now I was being told, again, that I wasn’t good enough. It transported me straight back to my childhood—to my stepdad’s voice telling me I needed to lose weight, even as a young teenager.

My mom always encouraged me to love myself, but my stepdad’s perfectionism lingered longer. He was the kind of man who needed everything in his life to be pristine, including his wife and kids. That constant pressure left me with a binge eating habit and body dysmorphia, struggles I carry to this day.

The weirdest part? The surgeon looked a lot like my stepdad. Sitting in that room, it felt like I was with him—the same critical eyes, the same fixation on perfection. And the most fucked-up part of all? I knew he was the one I wanted to do my surgery. Because, like my stepdad, he’d make sure I looked as perfect as possible.

I was quoted 4,500 euros for the procedure because I failed to mention that I wanted to remove more than 300 grams, which would have made the surgery free. I don’t know why I didn’t say anything—maybe our conversation had made me so anxious that I just said “okay” and convinced myself I’d find a way to pay for it.

The surgery was scheduled for five months later. But a month before the procedure, I quickly realised I couldn’t afford it and had to cancel.

Still, I didn’t give up. I didn’t give up on the surgery, and I didn’t give up on the fact that I wanted this specific surgeon. Eight months later, I went back—this time, less intimidated—and clearly demanded the procedure I wanted, including removing more than 300 grams. He agreed but informed me that because I was now taking the public route, I’d have to be placed on a waitlist. That meant another ten months of waiting.

During those ten months, I was consumed with anxiety. I had never had surgery before, and the fear of waking up in the middle of it or experiencing anesthesia awareness—feeling everything while being paralyzed—haunted me. It became an obsession, something I cried over repeatedly. There were moments I almost backed out, terrified I would be one of the 0.1%. But I didn’t. And then, the day finally came. My sweet mum, sensing my anxiety, flew in to be by my side. Knowing her, she had to be there in case anything happened to her firstborn. “You should’ve been careful what you wished for,” I joked, “because here I am, chopping off my boobs.”

The surgery was early, and we had to be there at 7 am. The whole preparation felt like something out of a dystopian sci-fi movie. All the patients for that morning’s surgeries were gathered together, asked to strip down, wear hospital gowns, and hand over all their personal belongings. We sat there in silence for what felt like an eternity before being led down freezing, dimly lit corridors to a waiting room. They tried to make it calming, with an odd water feature and colourful LED lights, but the observation windows made it feel more like some kind of strange experiment. The person ahead of me looked unwell, clearly fighting for their life. Beside me, a woman who had survived cancer before was awaiting a breast biopsy. She couldn’t stop talking to me about God, I think she wanted to make sure she was in His good graces, just in case. I was exhausted, wishing for a moment of rest, but it felt important to listen, to comfort her. I told her I would find Him, wanting her to feel like she had brought someone closer to God before her surgery.

Finally, it was my turn. I was led into a room with the surgeon and a group of medical students, where they took pictures of my breasts and drew surgical markings with a sharpie. I stood there, cold and afraid, feeling awkward in my vulnerability. Then I was taken to the operating room. Along the way, I kept my head down, afraid to see something that might spook me out of the surgery.

I was told to lie down on the operating table. The anaesthesiologist tried to make small talk, but all I could do was nod my head yes or no. It was go time. They asked me to envision my happy place, and my mind drifted to a memory of my mum and I on the beach—the one we spent so much of my early childhood on, during sunset. I was five again, playing in the sand as she watched me. I could feel the afternoon breeze on my skin, my hair blowing into my face, and the gentle sound of waves washing up on the shore.

Slowly, everything faded to black.

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A little more about the surgery they performed on me for those who are curious: 

The surgeon makes incisions on the breasts: around the areola (the darker area around the nipple), a vertical line from the areola to the breast crease (lollipop shape) and a horizontal line under the breast crease (anchor shape). Then they remove excess tissue, fat and skin to reduce the size and weight of the breasts. The nipples and areola are moved to a higher and more natural position and resized. They stitched me up and wrapped me tight. 

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I woke up an hour after the surgery in the recovery room and I guess was still high from the anaesthesia because I was already cracking jokes with the nurses. The first thing I did obviously was lift the covers to see my new and improved tits. I fucking did it, war is over. 

I was wheeled into my room by a middle-aged man who, despite the fact I looked like I’d been through hell and back, still tried to flirt with me. My room was spacious, clean, and had a lovely view. I had no idea where my phone was, but the nurse told me that both my mom and my best friend were on their way up. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, staring at the wall, I heard a soft knock on the door. It was my Ruby, holding a beautiful bouquet. Seeing her face and that bright smile brought me so much comfort. She’s always been the first to show up for me, without fail. Then, after getting lost for nearly an hour, my mother joined us, bringing a plant and some food. I couldn’t have asked for more.

Unfortunately, the next day, I had to go back into surgery due to internal bleeding. It’s a rare occurrence, the doctors assured me, but it was nothing to be too worried about. Of course, I was still panicking, but I made it through and was relieved that it was the only complication I had post-surgery. I stayed in the hospital for two days before being sent home to rest. For the next 10 days, I stayed in bed while a nurse came in daily to clean my stitches. The pain wasn’t too bad after the first few days, though I cried like a child to my mom as she comforted me the best she could. After that, it was mostly discomfort, as I had to hold myself up in strange positions, which caused a lot of back pain. So, no, I didn’t experience the instant relief in my back that many breast reduction patients describe. All I wanted to do was go outside and meet my friends. But it was also a time for reflection, to think about what I wanted to do when I was finally ready to step back into the world—several kilos lighter, without chronic back pain. Finally, the day came when I found the strength to go outside. The first thing I did? Treated myself to a blow-dry. It was my small victory, a moment of joy after all the waiting and healing.

I will never forget the moment they removed my stitches and I finally tried on my clothes—all the pieces I had tucked away over the years, waiting for this day. Tears filled my eyes as I stood there in disbelief, seeing the body I had always imagined, the body that felt like me. In that instant, every doubt and worry disappeared, replaced by the certainty that this was the best decision I had ever made. I admired my reflection, overcome with joy and excitement for the life I was about to embrace. 

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Bali, December 2024